


Fate, Chance, Kings, and Desperate Men

by gentle_herald



Series: Keeps Death His Court [1]
Category: Richard II - Shakespeare, The Book Thief - Markus Zusak
Genre: M/M, Sort-of crossover with The Book Thief, Stabby Aumerle, With apologies to John Donne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 20:18:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10343823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentle_herald/pseuds/gentle_herald
Summary: Death is haunted by humans, especially Richard and his court.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "Death, be not proud, though some have called thee  
> Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so...  
> For thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men..."  
> \- Holy Sonnet 10, John Donne

Fate: 

I never know if I should wait – hang around the scene of impending death, loiter on corners near knife fights and tap my foot in infirmaries – or if this is considered crude, irreverent. It would certainly be more efficient. Yes, a person is about to die. The probability is high at all times, given their fragility, but elevated now due to the danger of their current situation. But do I anticipate it openly? Or, as some humans do, should I avert my eyes and allow the human some privacy before their rendez-vous with me? 

At Richard's court, I waited unless I was called away for another soul. And I always returned when I had time. I could justify it, somewhat. 

People died there with an alarming frequency brought on not by human error or the plague, which was always popular, or famine, as in less privileged milieus, but by a truly staggering amount of sheer malice. Really, when you pass as many years as I have watching the by-products of ambition, it becomes a meaningless sound. Power. What a curious tone that word holds. Say it, I dare you. Repeat it endlessly and focus, really focus, on the syllables. It's only a jumble of noise. Does it really exist? Do any of these words that they destroy each other for? But, you see, they must – because in my observation, humans discover these things on their own. 

They know, somehow. I believe it's what you would call instinct; some part of the soul which I lack. 

Maybe that's why I kept close to Richard's court: it was such a vibrant stew of the emotions I can only feel by osmosis. 

I arrived to stay for some time when Gloucester was murdered. It was a good excuse, even if his soul was grouchy or bewildered. I make a point of not explaining the circumstances of my arrival to everyone I carry. Let the next step break the news. They are loving and my compassion is very limited. 

Richard, it seems, ordered his uncle's death. This is what I picked up from hearsay; he never would confirm, but it's only logical. Bolingbroke only knew half the truth when he accused Mowbray; Mowbray surprised me with his loyalty in protecting Richard. But that was a thin-ice moment. The man's nerve might have broken. It might have been too strong. Some men go drunk on power when they realize they are holding others' beating, fibrous hearts in their hands. There is, frequently, an impulse to rend. 

Bolingbroke's usual colours are steel grey and leather brown, but he permits his voice to take on a lovely midnight blue hue when he is glad or pleasantly surprised. It's rather charming, but I can't bring myself to show him special favor. He is so magnificently ordinary that there is simply no distraction to be had with him. Henry Bolingbroke is a serious man. His care rubs off on me, and it's the last emotion I need hanging about my hands like the faint odor of crushed leaves. I'm exhausted enough. 

Still, when Richard kissed him before the single combat, I snapped to attention. Richard is thoroughly entertaining: so wild, capricious, violent, charming, desolate. He surrounds himself with gold because he is deluded. I have never met a greener man in my - well, I'm not alive. But in my existence. 

He kissed Bolingbroke because he would enjoy both the kiss itself and the shock on Bolingbroke's face as he wrestled down sudden desire. Richard is fascinating. He glid back to the stands but interrupted the duel the moment he wished to – perhaps a hasty plan for effect, perhaps like an impetuous child. I left then because as charming as his wild vanity might be, I had work to do and a growing sense of trepidation about this court and over this possible investment. No one has instructed me to remain distant and form no emotional connections with the humans I serve, but I have learned that it is better. More professional, you could say. They can't stay with me forever, and messy human emotions like loss tire me. 

In the end, though, I must have my distractions. Some of those involve immersing myself in one human's tragedy for a time. 

 

Chance: 

I took Mowbray away in Venice and wondered where Bolingbroke was. It seem that he was a dogged, bitter man even then, one who would not allow me even the smallest opening; not that I wanted to remove him from this existence, but I could tell he was careful to avoid me. 

He was motivated in principle in the beginning. If revenge is a principle, that is; it is at the least a motivator other than greed. In some men, it speaks of love and loyalty. Honour. It amazes me that those life giving values can be turned so easily to death's purposes. Not to my will, but to the circumstances which compel me – how do I put this delicately – to collect a soul. Leading to a death, not to Death's secret game. I don’t have one, I can promise. 

When Bolingbroke returned to England, he started gathering bitter men about him. He left nothing to chance in laying his plans, but still they changed. When did he first think he could hold the throne better than Richard? Which border lord fed sweet flattery in his ear; the only flattery Bolingbroke would take. Rational compliments, backed up with facts and logic. Reasonable arguments to stroke his ego and convince Henry Bolingbroke that he had a right and a just grievance; that he would bear no guilt for overthrowing a divinely anointed king. 

It is not chance that weakened that man's holy fear until he could compass sedition. 

Humans think I am a force of chance, but they flatter me too much. I am a logical result. They are chance and act on each other; they provide the spark of chaos that sets pyres alight, and Richard had been building his for a long time. The northern barons handed Bolingbroke the match and with an almost laughable seriousness, he lit a torch and threw it. 

 

Kings: 

Bolingbroke's coup was nearly bloodless: a mark of finesse. Bushy and Green didn't deserve their fates, but who does? Actually, I could think of several people, but that's a dangerous route to take. I regularly remind myself that I am only the collector of souls. I do not kill people. They, due to a failure of biology, cease to live and the soul must go somewhere. I transport it to the next stage. I do not kill. I do not judge. Except when I feel unmixed pity or admiration or loathing for them and can't bring myself to speak a few kind words on our journey. Except for the ones I lift tenderly. Except when I cry. 

I apologize. I am becoming self absorbed and you're here for the drama. As was I. Let me continue. 

They were too loyal, that pair. They were known to be Richard's men – in all the ways you might care to interpret that. They and Bagot would never be swayed from him and so they were taken and beheaded at the beginning of Bolingbroke's campaign: his only casualties. 

I think Bolingbroke enjoyed the swiftness with which his orders were carried out. I could see the power of kingship settling on him along with the mail collar he always wore: the power to kill. 

 

Desperate Men: 

And so we come to the end: a lover, stripped of his parents' respect and desperate in his self-preservation. A usurper, who will never be steady on a throne he pulled out from under its rightful occupant, because if the throne can be seized once, it can be taken again and again. 

Aumerle was afraid, poor boy. Afraid of his father's wrath and his mother's smothering paranoia, of his own inability to break loose from the violent patterns that undergird life at King Henry's new court. He had already made his best move: the Oxford Rebellion was desperate and brave but now he was more hemmed in than before. The court scrutinized his history with Richard, his fresh treachery, and his fat inheritance. 

He crashed against the walls of his predicament like a trapped crow. He was afforded a cautious, chilly honour at court as if to say: look how much you stand to gain. Here, we will remove your chains for a moment and let you experience it. But if you make one wrong step you will become like your Richard. Make your choice carefully, boy. 

And Aumerle, who had already done his utmost to fight the new King Henry, saw a way out. It lay buried at the heart of the words Bolingbroke tried to use to entrap him. Bolingbroke should have been careful; he should have know better than to match Richard's beloved at a game of words. Words flocked around Richard easily, floating like pale, gold silk. They grew like vines, moving to tangle anyone he commanded. Aumerle had learned a little of this. 

The pattern was certainly fitting and it would have happened soon anyways, if not by Edward's hand then by the hand of someone who did not love the old king. And if not by direct action then by starvation and neglect so there would have been even fewer traces. Less guilt to assign Bolingbroke, who deserved a boiling ocean of torment for all he has brought upon Richard, Aumerle told himself. 

At the least, Aumerle understood the power of symbol and ceremony as well as Richard did. He used it, the only weapon he was permitted against Bolingbroke. In a way, Bolingbroke handed it to him. 

At Pontefracts, Richard ignored the man bringing poison and fights away his assassins – mere lackeys. Aumerle knew he would. He waited in the corridor, pressed against the cold, slimy wall. He was waiting, not ready; he ould never be ready. But waiting.  
He slipped behind Richard and stabbed him in one fluid movement. 

Did you know, Richard saw me as I approached. He laughed. I gave him a hand up and he tilted his head curiously as if he expected me to ask him to kiss it. Then the awkwardness passed and he, with all the regal grace he knew so well, bowed his shining red-gold head just a little. Just enough to thank me for my courtesy in ferrying him to the next life. And I believe, I truly do, that I have never been more honoured than by this arrogant, delightful king who never bowed to any earthly power's politesse.  
I took a long route so we could talk. Really, I was reluctant to let him go: I have no contact with the souls once they leave me. 

They always leave me. 

Aumerle got the revenge he wanted by forcing Henry to atone for the death he indirectly caused, but I'd rather not offer my opinion on Henry's kingship in general. In my line of work, I prefer not to talk politics, given that I serve everyone equally. I try to be fair-minded: some were desperate men and I don't get a say in the matter of who I take away and when. They decide that for me. 

 

One final note: 

I still miss Richard.


End file.
